


dig a little deeper and die young; become the dirt on my boots

by ObliqueOptimism



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inspired by All You Wanna Do from Six the Musical, Klaus Hargreeves Deserves Better, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Klaus Hargreeves Needs Help, Not Beta Read, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliqueOptimism/pseuds/ObliqueOptimism
Summary: He just wanted to make a connection, different than all the others he's made before. Something real. Something beyond sex.
Relationships: Klaus Hargreeves/David "Dave" Katz
Comments: 27
Kudos: 86





	dig a little deeper and die young; become the dirt on my boots

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for the lack of fic from me lately but like life has been _something_ lately. but look! i wrote a thing! its short and not tied to anything else but its done. anyway i'd warn about the weird style of the fic but honestly if you've read some of my other stuff strange styles or even similar to this is pretty normal so.
> 
> and thanks for natch! for helping me with this, even if you feel like you didn't do much you did a lot. <3

It wasn’t that he thought they cared about him. He never thought that they did. Rarely. He rarely thought they cared about him. Possibly his first time, young, unknowing, higher than he ever had been, taken by the hand and shown pleasure and pain and unable to say no, not fully knowing what was happening and then the next few times after that. He thought there had been a connection, that he was cared about.

How wrong he was.

_How wrong--_

After that, he’d learned. 

They all wanted to take and take and take and why not give up? Give in? Let them do what they pleased because it was all he was good for, wasn’t it? Each person who he thought maybe they could be friends had decided they wanted something a little more.

They were going to take a little more.

Give them a little more.

_Just a little more--_

Pretty boy, baby, sweetheart, doll, babe, sugar.

He’d heard it all, whispered in his ear.

Dirty boy, slut, whore, bitch, faggot, trash.

He’d heard it all, whispered in his ear.

Which terms of endearments were better? The fake caring ones? The ones that spoke the truth? Because he was all of what they called him. But sometimes it was nice to get someone who was nicer and sometimes he didn’t want that and he wanted the truth instead of lies. 

Whispered in his ear, spoken into his skin, branded to his soul-- into his being. 

They twisted and remade him; he was no longer just a number, the small child who just wanted the ghosts to be quiet. He now had a name and had gotten his wish and the ghosts were _quiet_ but that did not stop the voices.

Every so often someone came along and he would fall for them, for their lies, their pretty little words. He’d find friendship, perhaps? A kind gesture, someone even taking pity on him. A kind hand, someone letting him sleep on their sofa, buying him a meal. And maybe this time he could have a friend, a living and breathing friend (no offence to his brother) but someone who just didn’t want him for his looks, for his body; maybe they wanted something _else_ from him, something new. Not like everyone else.

_A friend._

He’d thought he found a friend once, but three weeks in with this friend, this roommate, he was proven wrong. They didn’t have a connection. He’d gotten hurt, physically, emotionally, realising he was being used, that for him to continue to hang out together, to be a roommate, they’d have to do more together. He wasn’t a friend. He wanted what everyone else did.

When he left that apartment, knowing the full truth, bruises up and down his body, he wondered if there was something inherently wrong with him. He couldn’t even have a friend for three weeks before they wanted sex. 

He’d always known he was good looking-- He’d always known people were drawn to him _that way_. Even before he’d left the Academy; so many of the ghosts told him from a young age what they wanted to do to him. Whisper in his ear as they couldn’t touch him, they couldn’t touch him, they couldn’t touch him, thye could’tn tuoch him, theey coudlnt’--

It hadn’t taken him long to realize that while the ghosts couldn’t, the living could.

_And they did._

He often told himself he wanted it, or he would want it if he’d been asked. It wasn’t always the case, sometimes he lied to himself. But the power of the mind was a powerful thing and maybe he did start to like some of what they did to him. 

Maybe he didn’t.

It was hard to tell sometimes.

And when he was high it didn’t matter anymore, none of it mattered. And since he chose to be high as often as he could he decided it didn’t matter ~~he didn’t matter~~ if he liked it or not. As he no longer cared it didn’t matter. 

Let them touch him.

At least then he’d feel something, right?

Right?

It was better to feel something than nothing?

It was better to feel bad, ashamed, embarrassed, stupid than nothing?

Right?

What about when he felt good? Joyful, happy, laughing all the while? It didn’t matter if those feelings were real or brought on by the drugs.

At least he’s feeling something.

Right?

So let them touch and make him feel. He deserves to feel. To feel it. To be made to feel it.

Why not whore himself out? People would take what they wanted anyway, but this way he can get something good out of it. Some money, some drugs. Now it wasn’t an empty exchange of them getting to use him for nothing, now we got something for it.

Made it worth it.

Made him worth it.

~~He still wanted a friend.~~

Maybe one day he could find one?

Make a different type of connection with someone. Someone who could care about him without it being for sex.

_Wouldn’t that be nice?_

It got to where he didn’t think it could happen but then there was a briefcase and suddenly gunshots and bombs and Charlies on the wire and get this FNG some pants and a handshake with a smile.

A friend?

Could this be?

Someone who wanted to be his friend?

Teaching him how to live in Vietnam, how to use a gun, how to dress and behave so that Sarge didn’t make him dig latrines for the whole unit, how to get out of a chopper safely, how to wear a helmet, how to best pack his bag that he had to carry on his back as they marched through the jungle, through mud, how to cut holes in his shoes so that his foot didn’t rot.

Someone who sought him out, who made him laugh, feel happy, told jokes and stories from his home, books he’d read, someone who asked questions back, _actually interested_ in him ~~but not like all the others had been interested in the past~~ , someone to make a connection with.

A friend.

He’d made a friend.

Him!

With a friend!

_but oh_

~~not a friend~~

Someone who reached out and gently touched his cheek and kissed his lips like all the others did and who called him those endearments he’d heard over and over and over an d ovre nda orve--

He’d done what he did best.

He let ~~his friend~~ take what he wanted. It was all he had to give, and shouldn’t he give in? He was good at it, the only thing he was good at.

_but oh_

~~could they still be friends?~~

His ~~friend~~ didn’t leave. Still with the jokes and laughter and stories and that felt the same as before. This was new, this connection was new. He’d never felt like he could have a friend, not one that also wanted sex from him but this seemed different. Maybe this time it was?

Could it be different this time?

Yes?

Yes

Yes!

It could. He hadn’t lost his friend. His friend still cared about him, his friend didn’t push, his friend asked him about his experiences and said that if they never did that again he still wanted him in his life. They would be friends, the connection was there. 

The connection was so different.

He was respected, he was cherished, he wasn’t being used. 

It was strange and wonderful and new and everything he’d ever wanted. Better than he’d thought he’d ever get, ever deserve, it was like being touched with the greatness his father always claimed he had in him.

That greatness had never been in him, it had been in _his friend_ , his beloved; and how the greatness was with him.

He felt whole, realizing he’d been missing part of himself but now he had it! It was with him! Through laughter, tears, quiet talks, holding him close and cherishing him as if he was special.

But then he had to hold his friend close as his one and only friend, the man he loved, choked on his own blood and no one was around to hear his pleas for help and now he was alone again.

Never again to feel the love.

It was lost and killed in front of his eyes, over and over in his dreams, in his memories.

It’s what he deserved?

Isn’t it?

The greatness was never his to keep.

 _Oh_ but he’d never give it up, knowing that feeling, to have held someone as special as his friend in his arms. And maybe one day? Through this cursed power he could touch greatness again.

If only--

If only it didn’t ~~couldn’t~~ turn out like that.

To see him again, younger and brighter than ever, unknowing who he is, who they could be together. To be punched by him, fraught with self-hatred and shame, shutting himself down again. 

No more connections.

No.

He wasn’t made for them.

He just ruined greatness by being himself. Killing it, tainting it, destroying it.

No.

No more connections.

**Author's Note:**

> cowgaykermit @tumblr


End file.
